


With Time

by annabagnell



Series: With Time [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Fandom Trumps Hate, M/M, Mpreg, Omegaverse, Original Character(s), Parentlock, Past Mpreg, Retirementlock, Sherlock Holmes's Retirement, Sussex, i guess?, mentions of past Miscarriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 06:15:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10270076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabagnell/pseuds/annabagnell
Summary: Heats weren’t what they used to be. Anymore it was like a low-grade itch, sometimes one that Sherlock didn’t even know needed scratched until John happened across it. Sometimes it was nothing more than a few moody days where Sherlock was a tetchy sonofabitch, being extra snappish and fussy until John looked at the calendar and said ‘ah’ and took Sherlock to bed. Sometimes, he’d be the one to catch on first. When that happened, it was more like it used to be. More seduction. More ‘come-take-me-to-bed.’ A spark, sometimes. A spark.-------For BakerStMel on Twitter, who purchased this through the Fandom Trumps Hate auction. Mel asked "What would omegaverse be like as they got older?" and I was like "Wow, that's an interesting question." So here is some early retirement-age Sherlock and John, learning what life is like post-andropausal.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BakerStMel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerStMel/gifts).



Heats weren’t what they used to be. Anymore it was like a low-grade itch, sometimes one that Sherlock didn’t even know needed scratched until John happened across it. Sometimes it was nothing more than a few moody days where Sherlock was a tetchy sonofabitch, being extra snappish and fussy until John looked at the calendar and said ‘ah’ and took Sherlock to bed. Sometimes, he’d be the one to catch on first. When that happened, it was more like it used to be. More seduction. More ‘come-take-me-to-bed.’ A spark, sometimes. A spark.

 

No, heats weren’t what they used to be, and sometimes Sherlock missed it. Sometimes he longed for the heady need, the desire to claim and be claimed. He didn’t want to be gentled open with cold lubricant from a bottle, he wanted to be fucked hard and fast and hear his own hot wetness in the slaps of John’s hips against his arse. He wanted John’s teeth on his neck, not his lips. He wanted the stretch of John’s knot inside him.

 

But they were past that, and he had to accept it. He had his bees now, and John had his own little practice in town. They weren’t _old,_ Sherlock insisted. _Old_ was stiff knees and injuries that ached when fronts came through. (Sherlock’s bullet wound on his shoulder ached.) (So did John’s.) (Neither admitted it.) _Old_ was rocking chairs and kitsch on the shelves. Sherlock despised kitsch, aside from the skull. And neither of them would ever be caught dead in a rocking chair. Their living room still had the same two chairs, taken without question from Baker Street and transplanted into their house in Sussex. There was a new mantle, but with the same knife stuck into it, for old time’s sake.

 

They mightn’t be _old,_ but they were getting there. Still, Sherlock didn’t mind. It was more than he’d thought he’d ever have, and he was going to cherish every moment.

 

* * *

 

“Joanna is coming to visit,” John said on a Tuesday morning, looking at his mobile. “She said she and Cameron have a weekend off and wanted to visit.”

 

“She’s pregnant,” Sherlock said, not looking up from his tea. John stopped and, after a beat of silence, made a questioning noise. Sherlock looked up then.

 

“What?”

 

“She’s pregnant,” he repeated, more slowly. Some things never changed. John threw a baked bean at him and it hit him in the shoulder, catching on the fibres of his sweater. Sherlock picked it off and ate it. “Of course she’s pregnant,” he added. “She’s twenty-nine years old and has been mated and married for three years, and she’s never planned a visit without you hounding her into it. Why would she voluntarily plan a trip, if not other than to tell us they’re starting a family?”

 

John was quiet for a minute and then let out a whoop of joy, pushing back his chair and scooping Sherlock up in a hug. “I’m going to be a granddad,” he said, kissing Sherlock on the cheek. He visibly calmed himself and took a deep breath, letting it out on a whoosh. “I should probably save my enthusiasm for when I actually get the news,” he said a bit sheepishly. “But still...you’re right, of course you’re right. I mean...it’s the same thing we did, when...”

 

“When I became pregnant with Joanna,” Sherlock finished, nodding. Something strange and more sad than he wanted to admit had settled in his chest as soon as his brain had finished slotting all the pieces into place. “I’m sure mother knew exactly what I was going to tell her when I asked if we could come visit,” he said, nodding again. “Even consulting geniuses are transparent at times.”

 

Bless John, for he must have known Sherlock was feeling something. He lowered himself into the chair at Sherlock’s side, sliding his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and pulling him ever so slightly to rest against the curve of his body. He sat, and they breathed together. In, out. In. Out. “You miss it,” John said at long last, his words vibrating across Sherlock’s back.

 

Sherlock’s hand moved to rest on his middle, which felt more hollow now than it had twenty-nine years ago, when he’d been emptied of his burden to have her laid on his chest, brand-new and wet and screaming. More hollow, even, than after the second child they’d lost before they ever knew it was there. Somehow, despite the decades that had passed and all the joy that Joanna had brought them, the pain felt new again. “But I’ll have a grandchild,” he said, mustering the strength to speak.

 

“It won’t be the same,” John said, and Sherlock knew what he meant. He was right. It wouldn’t be the same - it wouldn’t be. The knowledge of everything they had missed when that second baby slid from their grasp came back. Sherlock had wanted that - he’d wanted it desperately. He’d wanted a sibling for Joanna, the chance to make their family even more complete. He’d hoped for a son. He’d never know now whether it was.

 

“It won’t be the same,” John repeated, wiping away a tear that Sherlock hadn’t known was there. “It won’t be our baby, but it’ll be another little someone to love. And we won’t be the ones changing nappies or up in the middle of the night, so that’s good.” The dampness dried on Sherlock’s cheek.

 

“Another little someone to love,” Sherlock said, drawing a breath and letting it out. “I can...be happy for that. Happy for our daughter.” Of course he could be.

 

“Let’s go have a lie-down,” John said. Sherlock ignored the clock, which read 09:34, and followed John, holding onto his hand like it was a lifeline. He stripped off his trousers and shirt and climbed back into bed, under sheets that were barely cooled. John laid down next to him, facing him, and took his hand again. Sherlock resolutely did not cry. Not even when John wiped away the tears with the most tender hands Sherlock had ever felt.

 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was happy. It took a few days of ignoring the emptiness between his hips for him to feel normal again, but by the time Joanna and Cameron arrived that weekend, Sherlock betrayed no sign of his breakdown. She was pregnant, of course she was, just gone ten weeks and wanted to tell you first, and she was glowing. As she and Cameron sat hand-in-hand on the couch, telling John all the details of their obstetrician’s appointment, Sherlock tried not to see himself in her. He did not succeed. She had always been his shadow.

 

“Mum?” Joanna’s voice eased through the fog and he met her gaze. “I wondered - well, we both did, really, wondered if you had any...advice. Anything that got you through when you...had me.” She smiled at him, and he saw his eyes, now hers, filled with hope and joy and worry and wonder at what was to come.

 

“You’ll be...happier than you thought you ever could be,” he said, with conviction. “Sleep as much as you can, especially toward the end. Have a glass of wine on your anniversary. It won’t hurt the baby.” He heard John’s ‘tsk’ and Cameron’s laugh. “And no matter how prepared you think you are, you won’t be. But that’s what grandparents are for.”

 

When she left, there were two sonogram scans on the fridge - one from six weeks, another from a few days prior. The house felt a little less empty than it had for the past week, with the knowledge of another little someone to love on their way.

 

* * *

 

When Sherlock’s heat came around, he was acutely aware of it and determined to ignore it. He was more emotionally vulnerable during heats than any other time, and with everything that had happened in the past month he was not willing to lose himself in the least. Not even if this was the strongest heat he’d had in years, damn-you-very-much pregnancy pheromones.

 

Sherlock tried to busy himself, but was too distracted by the embers burning in his veins to concentrate on anything. He finally gave up and sat in his chair, editing a manuscript for a book on bee colonies that he’d been idly writing. Every few minutes he had to stop himself squirming and re-focus on the manuscript, but damn it, he had better things to do than indulge a faux post-andropausal heat.

 

John came home from the clinic and set his bag down. “You smell nice,” he said, walking over to Sherlock in his chair. “Mm, very nice.” Sherlock could tell he was thinking - he could hear the gears turning. His pheromones must have been having a field day in response to Joanna’s, because as soon as John came close, Sherlock felt the embers flare into flame. He couldn’t hide his little gasp and he heard John’s chuckle, then felt the sandpapery-rough of John’s stubble against his jaw. “I think someone needs to be taken to bed and thoroughly satisfied,” the alpha rumbled, sending shivers down Sherlock’s spine.

 

“It’s not real,” Sherlock said, and damn the tremble in his voice. “You’ll still have to - I’m not actually.”

 

“Ssh,” John murmured, teasing Sherlock up out of his chair. “Doesn’t matter. We can always pretend, can’t we? Your body clearly wants us to,” he said, raking light fingernails down Sherlock’s neck and teasing over his bond scar.

 

Sherlock was quiet, relaxing only a little into John’s touch. “I’m not sure I’m okay with my body pretending to want...a baby,” he finished, his voice hushed.

 

John kissed him, softly, carefully. “We can pretend it just wants me, if that helps,” he said, a smile playing across his lips.

 

Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh at that, a little. He kissed John back, feeling a used-to-be-familiar heat in his belly. “It always wants you,” he said, “And so do I.”

 

“Well then. I see no reason to deprive you, or your body, of the delights of me and my body,” John said, wiggling his hips until Sherlock outright laughed.

 

They fell into bed with a heat they hadn’t felt in quite some time. Though the heat was false, Sherlock’s body still lit up under John’s touch, and if he ignored the sound of the bottle cap cracking open, he could imagine it was his own slick that made John’s fingers slide in and out of him with ease. His cock was hard against his stomach, the tip beading up with pre-come. Sherlock was flushed from his cheeks to his chest, barely containing an earthquake when John finally slicked himself up and pushed inside.

 

John looked down at him, his eyes bright. Sherlock saw no grey hair, no wrinkles - he saw John, as he’d always seen him, strong and beautiful and full of light. He made a noise of need and dragged John down by the neck, kissing him deeply and desperately. “Please,” he gasped, his heel digging into John’s thigh. “Please, John, I - I need...”

 

“So do I,” John agreed, hooking an arm under Sherlock’s shoulder blade and holding him there as he started to move. They both found the rhythm that they needed. John pushed in and rocked Sherlock’s body forward, and Sherlock pushed back, taking John deeper, as deep as he could, feeling so full of _John_ that he thought he might burst.

 

The faux heat flared stronger and brighter with every thrust and gasp and rake of fingernails on skin, until Sherlock was sweating and squirming, eyes wide and dark with lust. John above him was in a similar state, droplets beading on his furrowed forehead. Sherlock felt his rhythm start to falter and he was hit with a craving for John’s knot - something he hadn’t felt in years. But that wouldn’t happen, this was a false heat --

 

His eyes flew wide and he gasped and came hard when he felt the stretch of his rim. The orgasm came like a punch to the gut, spurred on by the pressure and incremental stretch as John’s knot expanded. Through his haze, Sherlock could see that John seemed as shocked as he was, and he only managed a few more haphazard thrusts before his knot caught and he came with a choked-off sound.

 

They laid there, John on top of Sherlock, Sherlock’s emission cooling between them and John’s knot tugging _delightfully_ at Sherlock’s rim. Sherlock drew a few shallow, shaky breaths and opened his eyes, looking at John. “Even the fake heat fooled you,” he said, poking John’s hip. John’s resulting shift tugged at the place where they were joined and Sherlock let out something dangerously close to a coo of pleasure before getting himself back under control. “Didn’t think your knot would go.”

 

“I didn’t think either,” John replied, shaking his head and swiping Sherlock’s curls back from his forehead. “Good to know it still works after all these years.” Sherlock barked a laugh and kissed John softly, lips lingering on his mate’s.

 

The knot went down after a few minutes and John was able to slide out of Sherlock. He arranged their bodies to curl around one another, sharing their body heat and basking in the remains of Sherlock’s false heat, which was fading as fast as it had come on.

 

Sherlock took John’s hand and laid it over his stomach, mostly flat now, decades after he’d borne their daughter. Some of his stretch marks were dark around his navel - those would never fully fade, he knew. Reminders, always, of Joanna and the time he’d carried her. Reminders of the one they’d lost. This body, over half a century old, marked from bullets and knives and fists and, in the most tender way, from creating new life. John’s fingers curled around Sherlock’s there, in the space between his hips, and Sherlock didn’t feel empty at all.

 

* * *

 

The room was dimly-lit and quiet when Sherlock and John walked in. They had gotten the call a few hours ago, but the hospital was several hours’ drive from their home in Sussex, and by the time they’d arrived, all the excitement and fuss was over.

 

Cameron looked up from Joanna’s bedside when they came in, and Sherlock recognized the look on his face - it was the same one John had sported when Joanna was born. Worry and nervousness and excitement and relief and awe. John took a few steps and clapped Cameron on the shoulder, hugging their son-in-law tight. Sherlock went to Joanna and, heart full, looked down at the bundle in her arms.

 

“It’s a boy,” she said, looking up at her mother with tired but bright eyes. The new baby in her arms fussed a little, and she rocked him until he quieted again. “We haven’t decided on a name, yet. He’s perfect, mum,” she said, a tear shining in the corner of her eye.

 

“A boy,” Sherlock repeated, squeezing Joanna’s shoulder with a hand that was absolutely not shaking. “Well, let’s see him then,” he said, bending down to look at the baby in Joanna’s arms.

 

“Hold him,” she said, and handed the bundle to Sherlock. Even after decades being out of practice, his arms curled around the baby, holding him close in a way that he knew he’d never forget. He heard footsteps and John was a warm presence at his side, looking down at the baby in Sherlock’s arms. The little thing had the same cupid’s-bow lips that his mother had inherited from Sherlock, pursed in the way that all babies’ mouths were. Sherlock recognized Cameron’s nose.

 

John reached out with a careful index finger and pushed the baby’s cap up just enough to see the dark wispy hair on his head, and he elbowed Sherlock. “You can’t let anyone have a chance at light hair, can you,” he teased, and Sherlock’s face stretched into a smile. “Jo, he’s beautiful. He looks just like you...just like your mum,” he said, wiping away a tear. Sherlock found himself having to do the same thing.

 

“He has Cam’s nose, we think,” Joanna said, and Cameron nodded.

 

“I agree,” Sherlock said with a nod. The baby wiggled a little and settled in Sherlock’s arms with a little huff of a sigh, which made everyone in the room laugh. “Poor thing. It’s a rough business, being born,” he said, remembering how Joanna had done the same thing after she’d been laid in his arms.

 

“We were thinking,” Cameron said, “Thinking maybe we’d name him after your dad, John.”

 

“James, though, not Hamish, surely,” John said, though Sherlock could tell he was taken by surprise at the idea. “Don’t need to saddle someone brand-new with Hamish for a name.”

 

Cameron and Joanna both chuckled. “Yeah, James, we thought. A bit plain, but then...nothing wrong with that, even for a Holmes grandchild.” Joanna smiled up at Sherlock, who found he was having a stronger reaction than he’d thought he would to the old joke and had to swipe at a tear.

 

“James William, we thought,” Joanna said, and Sherlock did start crying, then, holding his grandson and namesake in his arms. “Oh, mum...”

 

“Don’t you mind me,” Sherlock said wetly, holding James close to his heart and swallowing the ball of emotion in his throat. “I’m just an old, silly man. I’m a grandparent, I’m allowed to cry.” John had a strong arm around his waist, holding him close. “Here. Take him for a moment,” he said to John, handing James over carefully before retreating a few steps to pull a handkerchief from his pocket and dab at his eyes and nose.

 

John held the baby for a little while, and then passed him back to his mother, who was starting to look bone-tired. James was only a few hours old and his mother had yet to sleep, so John and Sherlock said their goodbyes after a little while and left the new family to rest and recover. They had a hotel for a few nights and were going to be staying with Joanna for a little while, helping out until they settled into a routine.

 

Sherlock was quiet on the way to the hotel, and so was John. It was like it had been after Joanna was born - no matter how prepared they thought they were to become grandparents, they weren’t, not really. They had a quiet dinner of sandwiches and tea and watched some telly before bed, settling quietly into their hotel bed with its stark-white sheets and too-soft pillows. Somehow, Sherlock knew he wasn’t going to get much sleep that night.

 

John wasn’t, either. With one lamp still on and the room quiet, he pulled Sherlock to lay with his head on his chest, safely tucked against him. “She’s going to be a good mum,” John said, running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “They’ll be good parents. Heads on their shoulders, like us. Even with us as bad influences, he’ll turn out to be a good kid, Sherlock.”

 

“I know,” Sherlock said, his arm over John’s waist, an anchor. “We made her, after all. She didn’t turn out all too badly. I’d call it a success. Now we’re the ones who get to do the spoiling,” he said, remembering how badly his own mother and father had spoiled Joanna when they came to visit.

 

“It’ll get easier,” John said, and Sherlock nodded. He knew exactly what John was talking about and he knew that, with time, John would be right.

 

 

* * *

James grows quickly, as quickly as Joanna had. The time flies. Before Sherlock can grasp it, he’s laying out a cake and ice cream for the little boy’s first birthday. It’ll just be a small party, Sherlock and John and Cameron and Joanna and James, but that’s fine, they’re having another small to-do with some children from the daycare.

 

However, when Joanna brings James into the house and the baby reaches for Sherlock, laughing, Sherlock’s evaluative gaze lands on Jo and she grins sheepishly. “It’s early days yet,” she says, “So you stay hush.”

 

“Hush about what?” John asks, coming into the room and scooping up a happy, bubbly James.

 

“Nothing,” Sherlock says, and sees Joanna relax just slightly before Cameron comes in, arms full of bags and boxes for James to unpack. “Now, let’s see about giving the birthday boy some cake. Everyone deserves a little celebration for their birthday.”

 

 

* * *

 

The Sussex house has bedrooms for all of their grandchildren, and so it never feels empty, even when they’re not around to visit. Sometimes Sherlock has an itch that he needs John to scratch, and sometimes he doesn’t mind being gentled open instead of taken in a rush. Their hair turns grey - John’s first, and then Sherlock’s, in streaks - and their joints and old wounds ache when the weather turns, and they both complain about it. They still refuse to submit to rocking chairs.

 

Some days, Sherlock speaks to the bees, who listen to what he has to say while working merrily. When Sherlock takes his grandchildren out to the hives, they buzz and land on little hands without fear of harm. He teaches the children how the bees organize and work for the hive, and they taste the raw honey from the combs. John teaches them how to use it in tea, and Sherlock sends them home with jars to use on their own, and after a time, he never feels empty at all. He has more than he’d ever thought he would have, and he cherishes every moment.


End file.
